


Shadowbride

by VegaNebula



Category: Fable (Video Games), Fable 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Abuse, Arranged Marriage, Blood, Dark, Evil Hero, Evil Sparrow, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Full out Evil/Corrupt, Human Sacrifice, Light Dom/sub, Ritual Sex, Rituals, Rough Sex, Sexual Tension, Shadow Worshippers, Temple of Shadows
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:21:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26069395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VegaNebula/pseuds/VegaNebula
Summary: Noblewoman Cordelia Rockford’s life is turned upside-down when she is given to the Hero of Bowerstone, the Lord of Shadows, as a gift. Dragged into a life of dark secrets and desires, all covered in blood, she struggles to retain her humanity, her goodness—and her sanity
Relationships: Hero of Bowerstone/Original Character(s)
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I realised as I started this that it’s quite difficult to write a dark piece out of something that is very much a parody and a satire. I love the Fable universe, and perhaps mostly because of the parody—but as someone who taked great interest in creative writing and world-building, I love to explore the darker sides to it as well. It’s all fun and games when we’re players, but I have always been fascinated with the deeper concept and context of the Dark Hero and what it means in the diegetic. 
> 
> Writing about the Shadow Worshippers, who are clearly a satire of devil-worship and the mythos around Satanism, is interesting but challenging. I’ve drawn inspiration from 19th century occultism, and the myths about it, mixed with some of the hysteria from the “Satanic Panic” in the 80’s – 90’s.

** PART 1 **

Delia was rarely at the Cow and Corset. She was a noblewoman, and she did not mingle with the regular townsfolk. At least, she wasn’t allowed to. Her father, Reginald, had made sure that she stayed in their manor on Fairfax Road, and socialised in the gardens with other nobles. She was allowed at the market, but never unchaperoned. This night, she had snuck out. There was a very special reason to it—rumours had it that the Hero of Bowerstone was in town, and Delia would hardly miss such a thing.

It was said that the Hero was a degenerate, a demon from the mouth of Skorm—and because of it, he was highly interesting to the bored and deprived people of Bowerstone. They would never miss a deviant spectacle like him; he was dangerous, so he was interesting. Delia, however, figured that since the man had done so much good, he couldn’t possibly be as evil as people claimed him to be. They called him Shadowfiend, and some even claimed that he was the Master of the Temple of Shadows, but Delia was sceptic. He was a Hero, after all, and he had saved Albion from Lucien Fairfax’s hold. Surely, she thought, he couldn’t be that monstrous.

So, she waited that night at the Cow and Corset, with the hopes of catching a glimpse of the famous man. The townsfolk seemed to know each other, and seemed to enjoy themselves. There were some bards playing in a corner, and there were people dancing and laughing. In a way, Delia felt rather alone. She watched as young people, people her own age, talked amongst themselves—the girls giggled and looked longingly at the boys who tried to outdo each other in arm-wrestling and drinking. Delia couldn’t even imagine partaking in such common lunacy, but she couldn’t help but feel rather left out.

The place was getting crowded, and rowdy, and the men couldn’t seem to stop staring. It was obvious that they rarely had noble customers at the tavern. Delia tried to enjoy her cider, but the staring men made her quite uncomfortable.

“Wha’s such a sweet little plum doin’ ‘ere, ey?” said one man as he wobbled towards her. Delia tried to ignore him, but he fell down on an empty chair next to her. “All alone, ey?”

She pulled her elbows tighter to her body and tried even harder to ignore the man, but it was difficult.

“Ey, pumpkin’,” he spat and leaned forwards. The man reeked of alcohol and sweat.

“Please, sir,” Delia said, “I am bothered by your company.”

“Oi!” the man bellowed. “We’ve got a little princess in ‘ere!”

As he uttered the words, he was joined by what seemed to be friends of his, and Delia looked around worriedly. She shouldn’t have gone alone. No one else seemed to mind the men’s inappropriate banter, but she felt utterly exposed and—frankly—terrified.

“Come on, little princess,” said another one, just as drunk as the first. “Let’s go upstairs an’ ‘ave some fun, yeah?”

“No,” Delia said, but the men only laughed. She then quickly rose and hurried out of the tavern, the Hero be damned! Her heart raced and her breath was strained. She knew she shouldn’t have gone out. She knew she shouldn’t have dared enter town unchaperoned! The men followed her, and as she hurried through the streets, she felt the tears prickle behind her eyes. They called for her, called her _peach_ and _plum_ and _princess_. They called for her to come back, to have some fun with them, but she wanted nothing else but to be rid of them. She hurried through the dark alleyways, taking a shortcut to save some time, but she was anticipated by the rowdy men, and before she knew it, she was surrounded. She pleaded to them, told them _no_ , but they only laughed as they reached for her with greedy hands, tugging at her expensive dress.

She cried as they forced her into another alleyway, further away from any living soul—it was four burly men against girl of eighteen, as the light from a nearby, lonely streetlight spilled in, and she cried and thought to herself that this must be the end.

Suddenly, one of the men was snatched high into the air as an arm reach out from the shadows, grabbing the man’s throat. Everyone stopped, and Delia quickly crawled backwards until she hit the wall. Into the firelight stepped a man—no, a creature—with venomously green eyes. With a monumental stature, the man’s skin was grey and cracked with red veins; his hands were big, and his fingers were clawed; a long, dark coat hung from broad, muscular shoulders, and a bloodstained bandit shirt revealed an inked, muscled torso. The ink crawled like vines over the grey skin, only interrupted by the red, slightly glowing veins and stretched all the way up to the man’s throat; his jaw was strong and proud, and heavy, dark brows rested menacingly low and cast a dark shadow over the green eyes. The red cracks traced like scars over the face, and Delia gasped in horror as she saw the long, calloused horns that grew from the man’s skull. Black, thick hair was tied in the back, but some strands hung over the eyes, and a guttural growl escaped the demon as he said, “I believe the lady said ‘no’.”

The three other men all whimpered before the Hero—Shadowfiend—and then they quickly left the scene. The man in the beast’s grip struggled for air, but the Hero did not seem to have any plans on releasing him. Delia could see the man’s face turn blue, and she almost thought she heard cracking noises before the demon dropped the man to the ground, and he gulped for air.

“Be gone, worm,” growled the Hero, and the man crawled away, lucky to be alive.

Delia pressed herself to the wall. Her heart was in her throat and she felt numb as the terrifying green eyes settled on her.

Shadowfiend cocked his head, only slightly, and smirked. “A noble girl, alone at night?” He clicked his tongue. “It’s as though you’re looking for trouble.”

Delia was petrified, unable to speak. With a dark chuckle, the demon slowly crouched in front of her, and she could see his face clearly now—and she was surprised to find so much humanity in it. This was still a man—not a demon. Despite the red cracks, and despite the grey skin and the terrifying eyes, it was still a man, and surprisingly handsome for his terrifying features, and not too old. She could barely believe it, but there it was. Suddenly, she felt her cheeks redden. “I… I’m sorry, sir.”

“Why?” He traced his venomous eyes along her form, and she shuddered. His lips curled into a crooked smile. “You’ve done no wrong, have you?”

“No,” she breathed.

Slowly—dangerously so—he eyed her, lingering on her cleavage and her lips, before his gaze met hers. “What’s your name?”

“C-Cordelia.”

He seemed to ponder it for a short moment, before he hummed. “Well, Cordelia, I think it’s time for you to return home. Sweet things like you shouldn’t be out in the dark by yourselves.” He rose—his stature was truly enormous—and extended a hand to aid her.

Delia hesitated. The hand was big, and the black claw-like nails looked sinister. Slowly, she placed her hand in his. It was warm and rough, weathered by weapons and fighting, and it completely engulfed hers as it closed. He didn’t pull, but simply stood as a steadfast support as she hauled herself up onto her feet. “Thank you, sir,” she mumbled and curtsied. Her head reached only his chest, and as he towered over her, gazing through her with those green eyes, it was as thought the shadows behind him grew; Delia gasped and took a step back.

“What’s the matter, girl?” he asked with a dark and velvet tone. “Did you see something that frightened you?”

She stared at him, eyes wide, and felt the cries edging on escaping her.

The Hero chuckled—a dark, rumbling, strangely echoing chuckle—and the darkness behind him thickened. “Don’t worry, my lady. The shadows are my friends. They will only harm you if you ask for it.”

Delia quickly averted her gaze, too afraid to look at the dark mass behind the Hero, but then she saw him offer his arm like a gentleman. She looked at it, unsure of what to do, but he stood silent, patient, and waited for her to accept his arm. Finally, she did. The leather on his coat was cool to the touch, and she could feel the stern and stiff ridges that had been formed from wear and tear. She dared to glance up at him, and he smiled, his eyes decidedly settled on her. She took a deep breath, collected her courage, and said, “I live at Rockford Manor.” Something changed in the Hero’s eyes—surprise, curiosity, and amusement. Delia swallowed. Her family was old—distant cousins of the Fairfax family—and she worried the Hero might think they had any affiliations with Lord Lucien and his insanity.

But the Hero did not seem more murderous than before. “Well then, my Lady Rockford,” said he, “let’s get you home in one piece.” He kept his word and walked her home in the darkness. None of them spoke one word until they had arrived at the manor. The Hero bowed deeply, his dark hair falling gracefully over his shoulder. “I bid you good night, fair Cordelia.” Without as much as a warning, the Hero planted a soft kiss on her hand, and she felt her knees tremble. His green eyes lingered on hers for a moment before one corner of his lips curled into a smile and he disappeared into the shadows.

Delia felt her heart hammer violently in her chest—suddenly, she realised what had happened that night, and what could have happened. Quickly, she snuck into the big house, making sure to tip toe past the guard who always slept on duty. Silently, she made her way to her room. She was still trembling, still terrified, and she could barely believe she had made it out unharmed. The Hero’s poisonous gaze was still burning through her, and she couldn’t understand why she had found him to intriguing, so alluringly handsome—he looked like a demon, frightening and evil, and yet, she couldn’t stop thinking about his soft kiss on her hand.

Sleep did not come easily, and when morning arrived, Delia was still preoccupied with the memories from yesterday. At breakfast, her father seemed scatterbrained and in a hurry. As he passed the parlour, he suddenly stopped.

“Ah, my darling Delia,” he cooed and stopped. “How good you’re up! There’s something I must speak to you about.”

She turned to face her father and tipped her head to the side. “Yes?”

“Well, you see, there will be a dinner tonight,” said he. “With the Order.”

“Oh…” Delia slumped her shoulders. Her father was a part of a secret society, one that usually met for a grand dinner once every year. This was not it—the dinner had already been held. “Well, why?”

“It is a very important event, my dear.” Reginald sat down next to her. “You see, we have waited many years for this… and—” He swallowed nervously and smiled at her. “My dearest Cordelia, I will need you to attend this evening.”

She stiffened. She had never before been allowed to know anything about the Order. Every year, she was taken to their summerhouse at Bower Lake for the night of the dinner. Everything was shrouded in mystery, and she was forbidden to even mention the Order to anyone. The consequences could be dire, her father had said. Now, he wanted her to join. No, he _needed_ her to join. Slowly, she nodded. “As you wish, father.”

He smiled. “Good. You are a very special girl, Cordelia, and you were put into this world with a purpose. I couldn’t be more proud of you.”

She furrowed her brows. “You’re making me worried, father.”

“No, no!” cried he. “There’s no need! It’ll be alright, I swear it.”

She was sceptical, but she nodded. If her father wanted her to join the dinner, then she had no reason to decline.

The evening seemed to be just around the bend, and before she knew it, the clock struck ten at night and the dark settled. Delia stood in her chambers, observing herself in the mirror. She was worried, nervous, and incurably curious. She had no idea what awaited her, but she had wondered, all her life, what the Order really was. Carefully correcting her green, satin dress, she wondered if it was good enough for the evening. Surely, a blue one would have been better, complementing her eyes, but she liked the green one. She had put her hair up in a fashionable do, her curls as auburn as her mother’s had been, and she wore the gold necklace and drop earrings her father had given her that Winter Solstice. She worried that the neckline was too low, and that the corset was too tight, but she had no time for alterations as one of the servants called for her to tell her that the guests had arrived.

Delia swallowed before she straightened and walked down the stairs. Entering the dining hall, she noticed that all the guests were dressed in black. Some, she recognised—nobles and rich merchants—while others, she had never seen before. All were men. They all looked at her with pleasant nods, and she gracefully accepted a class of wine that was handed to her by the servants—and downed it nervously. She tried to mingle about, but she had no understanding of what the men were speaking of. They were mentioning ‘darkness eternal’, ‘evil bound’, and ‘sacrificial lambs’; it was enough to make Delia rather wary of whatever this society truly was. About half an hour later, the doors opened, and a large, black, shaggy dog entered. The room went silent. The dog’s red eyes scanned the room, its canine’s barred and sharp as it breathed heavily. Shortly after, Shadowfiend entered, and the room seemed to dim just a bit, as if he brought darkness with him. Delia’s heart stopped as she slowly pressed herself to the back of the room. The Hero was also dressed all in black, smartly and elegantly, with ruffles, waistcoat, and shined shoes; instead of his leather coat, he wore a satin one, and the gleam of the fabric revealed the strain over his muscled arms. His black hair was tied back, just like it had been the night before—only a little more elegantly—but in the candlelight, Delia could see how long and thick it truly was. She could also see more clearly the horns that rose in his forehead and the red, almost glowing, veins that trailed his grey skin. The room was silent for a few moments, before the men all bowed deeply to the Hero, leaving Delia erected and confused. The venomous gaze settled on her from the other side of the room, and he cocked his head, but said nothing. Flustered, Delia tried to hide her cleavage with an elegant hand. As soon as the men had stopped their deep bowing, she ducked away to try and sneak off. 

Suddenly, her father cleared his throat and clanked some silverware into the glass, demanding everyone’s attention, and Delia froze. “Gentlemen, honoured guests,” he started and looked about the room. “Thank you all for coming on such short notice. Indeed, we have waited for quite some time now, but finally, the time has come. Friends of the Dark, the moment has come when the Shadows have chosen their Lord and Champion!” He turned with a proud smile towards Shadowfiend. “My lord, let me express my deep gratitude that it is _you_ who have been chosen, at last!” He raised his glass. “All hail Shadowfiend, Lord of Shadows!”

“Shadowfiend!” the men chanted as they all raised their glasses. “Lord of Shadows!”

Delia felt sick to her stomach. Was her father a Shadow Worshipper? Staring disbelievingly at him, he met her eyes and smiled. He looked proud—happy—and probably didn’t understand the hurt she felt in her heart.

He cleared his throat again. “Eighteen years ago, my dearest daughter, as you all know, was born.” Of course, the whole room turned their eyes on Delia, and she dropped her gaze as her heart raced. “Sadly enough, her mother—my beloved Angela—was lost in the delivery, and I would have lost my precious Cordelia as well, had it not been for the Shadows.” Delia snatched her eyes back at her father. What did he mean by that? “Not only did the Shadows bless my daughter with life, but they also gave me the best gift a father could receive—I was given the rare honour of raising the future bride of the Lord of Shadows!”

Her world suddenly stopped. The crowd cheered, but she did not hear it. Everything dimmed down, and all she could hear was her own heartbeats, and all she could see was the piercing, luminous green eyes that seared through her from across the room. This wasn’t real, she kept thinking. She couldn’t possibly have been promised to the Hero— _the Lord of Shadows_ —her entire life. It simply wasn’t possible. Faintly, she heard the men cheer to her as _Shadowbride_ , but she didn’t want to hear it. Just as the world returned to her, she placed her glass down at the nearest stand and left the room. She couldn’t breathe—she knew her corset was too tight—and she hardly knew where to go or where to turn. Reginald had run after her, but she only pushed him away. “How could you?!” she cried. “What _madness_ is this?”

“My darling,” Reginal said, “this is a great honour for you!”

“This is sick!” she spat. “This… this is…” Spots started to cover her vision as she struggled for air. “I can’t breathe…”

“Delia?” Her father grabbed her by the shoulders. “Delia, dearest?”

“Step away.” Shadowfiend’s dark voice resonated through her as she felt strong hands hold her. Before she knew it, her bodies had been torn at the back, and air was let into her lungs.

Clasping helplessly at the man’s arm, she took deep, greedy gulps of air, so much so that it burned her throat and chest. She looked at him, his green eyes peering down onto her, and she felt her knees give in. She never hit the floor, but was scooped up into the Hero’s arms, as though she weight next to nothing.

“This has been too much for the lady,” said he and turned to her father. “Point me to her chambers.”

Reginald nodded and quickly showed the way. Delia’s mind was all a haze, but she felt the soft pillow against her face as he gently placed her down onto her bed. She heard her father’s worried voice somewhere in the distance—still inside the room—and Shadowfiend’s dark replies.

“Oh, is she going to be alright?”

“She just needs some rest.”

“But what about the ceremony?”

“It will have to wait. I’m sure she will be ready in an hour or so.”

“I am terribly sorry, my lord. I had no idea she would react like this.”

A dark chuckle, just as sinister as she remembered it from the night before, echoed strangely through the room. “Well, what can you expect when she just realised what her future holds?”

“But I am sure she will come to see the honour in it!”

“In time, she will. Have the servants lay out a black dress for her. She should be appropriately dressed for the ceremony.”

“Indeed, my lord.”

The two men left the room, and Delia broke down in tears.

* * * 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disturbing themes ahead. Continue at your own peril.

** PART 2 **

It was only earlier that year that Delia’s father had bought her the black dress. She had wondered then why he had bought her a mourning gown, but he had said that one never knows when it might come in handy; now, however, she understood why.

Had it not been for her elegant hairdo and her obviously being a woman, she would have blended in perfectly in the company of twenty black dressed men around the long dinner table. She watched as the rest of them ate and drank and laughed, but she could not participate. She felt sick to her stomach, knowing that every person in that room was a Shadow Worshipper—and what made matters worse was Shadowfiend’s gaze as he relentlessly observed her from the other side of the table. The _Shadows_ , whoever they were, had decided that she was to marry Shadowfiend in one month’s time, during All Soul’s Night. No, she thought, she would not agree on marrying that man. Never. She would rather die.

When the main course had been eaten, the company moved to the grand hall, and Reginald made sure that Delia followed. She glared daggers at him, but she could see that he was reluctant. With the Hero’s eyes constantly following them both, however, neither of them dared to do else but to move with the crowd.

With another clank on glass, Reginald took centre stage, right in front of a strange table that had been placed in the middle of the room. “Friends of the Dark,” he said, and swallowed. Delia could see that he was uncomfortable. “What would the celebration of the Lord of Shadows be without a… well, without a blood sacrifice to grand prosperity and happiness to the Lord and his bride?”

“Hear, hear!” nodded the men, but Delia scowled in horror—blood sacrifice?!

Her father, too, wrinkled his nose and said, carefully, “perhaps this is where we thank my dearest Cordelia for her participation and bid her goodnight before—”

“The girl stays.” The booming voice was everywhere in the room, coming from every direction, and they all gasped and looked around. It was Shadowfiend, settling his piercing gaze at Reginald, as the room darkened. “She is my bride, and she will rejoice in this sacrifice made in her honour.”

Delia’s heart hammered painfully against her ribs. “No,” she breathed and backed away. She did not want to witness any blood sacrifice. She quickly turned to the doors, but was suddenly faced by two large shadow figures standing in her way, their eyes glowing red. She shrieked and backed once more, back towards the crowd. There was a low murmur escaping from the members of the Order, but most seemed impressed—frightened, but impressed. Delia’s chest heaved as she stared at the dark masses by the door, and then she looked at her father. Regret stained his face, but she understood now that it was too late. They had passed the point of no return, and it was starting to dawn on him as well.

He cleared his throat. “Well then… I…” Reginald sighed heavily, defeated. “Cornelius, bring forth the lamb.”

From another room entered a lean man, all dressed in black, with hollow cheeks and dark, sunken eyes. With him, was a woman in Delia’s age, take or leave a year or so. She was dressed in a sheer, white gown, completely naked underneath, and she was brought forth to the table in the middle. Delia clapped a hand over her mouth, horrified at the scene. Was _this_ the blood sacrifice?

The man who led her in, Cornelius, left her by the table and said, “you are about to sacrifice yourself to the Darkness and the Shadows. Do you consent?”

The girl nodded, sand coloured hair falling into her warm, brown eyes.

Cornelius pulled the gown over the girl’s shoulders and let it fall into a heap by her feet, revealing her nakedness in front of the men. “Then turn to your Lord and pledge your loyalty.”

The girl turned carefully to Shadowfiend, who was standing slightly behind the crowd. “Lord of Shadows,” said the girl, her voice sweet and nervous. “I pledge my soul and my body to the Darkness, and I wish that my blood and my life will aid you in all your endeavours.”

Shadowfiend only nodded, a stern and single nod, before shadows seemed to almost engulf him, only letting his green eyes glimmer through it. 

Cornelius bowed to the Lord of Shadows and turned to the crowd. “Before the lamb is sacrificed, her maiden womb shall be seeded. You may all partake, if you’d like, and once the womb is filled with seed, we shall wash her before we empty her body of blood.”

Delia pressed her hand tighter over her mouth, keeping down a scream that wanted to rise. This was a nightmare, and she knew not where to run—further into the crowd would bring her closer to the scene, and farther back would bring her closer to the shadows. Neither seemed like a good option. When the horrible deed was about to begin, Delia simply collapsed to the floor, and curled herself into a little ball. Quickly, she felt a grip—cold as ice—around her as she was dragged to her feet. Looking about, she saw shadow figures holding her up, forcing her to bear witness to how Cornelius told the girl to bend down over the table.

Her legs were forced apart, and it was clear that this wasn’t just duty to Cornelius—this was pleasure. He touched the girl at her centre, readying her for his assault. The rest of the room was silent and the men watched with great anticipation as the girl moaned, squirming more and more as Cornelius grinded against her. Her moans turned to small, lustful cries, as the girl convulsed there on the table after being granted release. Cornelius breathed heavily as he unbuttoned his trousers and pulled out his swollen member. Stroking its length a few times, he then moved his tip against the girl’s heat, and she jerked violently. Pain could be seen in her face as he forced himself inside of her. There was a strange sound of triumph from most of the men around the room when Cornelius had buried his shaft as far as possible, and he started rocking against her. She moaned, cried, and screamed as Cornelius thrust against her, again and again. He moaned, too, slamming faster and faster into the girl, until he suddenly stopped, deeply buried, and erupted in a high bellow. The girl was trembling and breathing shallowly as Cornelius pulled out of her, and a line had already formed behind him. When the next one took his place, and another hard appendage twitched against her entrance, the process begun again.

Delia, who had been too shocked to look away, finally closed her eyes as tears streamed down her face. She never knew how many men ravished the poor girl that night, but once the moans and the screams had silenced, Delia dared to open her eyes again. The room smelled of vile sex, several men had their red faces covered in sweat, and the girl on the table could barely keep her eyes open. She lay on her back, her arms and legs falling lifelessly over the edges of the table. Cornelius brought forth a cloth and started to dab it over the girl’s body, but Delia could see that he only abused her further, massaging her breasts and running his fingers down the torrents of wet, sandy locks between her legs. She was then tied to the table by her arms and legs, and as Cornelius pulled a lever, the table turned on its head, rising so that the girl hung upside down.

A large, sharp knife was handed to Cornelius, and he turned to the crowd. “Now, when the womb has been seeded, we shall commence bleeding the body.” With a swift movement, he made a deep cut in the girl’s soft flesh, and she cried out in pain as scarlet blood started to pour over her pale skin. One after another, the members made a cut each, leaving the girl filled with red, bleeding cuts all over her body. When the knife returned to Cornelius, he asked the girl, “any last words?”

“All hail the Lord of Shadows,” croaked the girl, and the men replied with the same words. Only moments later, Cornelius had run the sharp blade straight across the girl’s throat, and thick, claret blood poured over the girl’s face as she died there, turned on her head while naked and tied to a table.

A strange silence followed the girl’s last breaths, and Delia finally caved in as her mind faded to black.

* * *

She woke up in a bed that was not her own. Terrified, she flung up into a seat and looked around. There were no windows in the room, and the only light came from a fire burning in a fireplace on the other end of the room. She didn’t even recognise the room—surely, this wasn’t Rockford Manor. Panicked, she looked down. She was still dressed in her black gown, and her heart slowed some, but then she remembered the horrifying scene she had witnessed and quickly rose from the bed and rushed to the door. It was unlocked.

Stepping out, her heart was in her throat. She peeked out to start with, afraid to be faced with more of those horrid shadow figures, but the door led into a dark and empty corridor. She brought a burning piece of wood from the fire and made her way into the darkness. Here and there, she saw black banners hanging on the walls, with red details on them. It all sent terrible chills down her spine. She took a few turns, tried to remember which ways she took in case she needed to return, and was relieved to finally see some light spilling in from the end of the hallway. She almost ran, but when she reached the room from which the light came, she dropped the make-shift torch and gasped. In an armchair by a fireplace sat Shadowfiend, reading a book with his great black dog at his feet.

He looked up, his green eyes calm and unbothered, and smiled. “You’re awake, then.”

Delia pressed herself against the wall, deliberating whether or not to bolt through the door.

But Shadowfiend rose from the chair and placed the book on the seat. He was dressed in the same clothes and the night she first met him, and the leather in his coat complained as he moved. “I understand it must have been quite overwhelming for you, witnessing that act.”

Overwhelming? Yes, she thought. Indeed it was quite overwhelming—and horrible, and vile, and evil! She wanted to yell at him, but her voice would not obey.

Slowly, he started towards her. “Of course, it can’t have been easy for you to accept your fate, given that you haven’t known it until now.”

“I…” She started, but her voice betrayed her.

Shadowfiend shook his head. “Don’t worry, Cordelia. Your father had no choice. The Shadows made that choice for him, as they made the choice for me.”

Surprisingly enough, she thought she saw sincerity in his poisonous eyes, and that small sign of humility finally granted her a voice. “I don’t want to marry you!”

The Hero’s eyes hardened again, any trace of humility gone in a second, and he sighed. “I think you’ve made that quite clear, Cordelia.”

“That girl,” she started, but had to swallow the bile that rose in her throat at the memory of her dead and abused form.

“That girl,” Shadowfiend sighed, “was a willing sacrifice. She knew what she was getting herself into, and she was ready to give herself to the Shadows.”

“But why?” she breathed, pulling her arms around herself.

“The Shadows grant wishes,” said Shadowfiend and walked closer still. “Some want riches, other want fame. Some, like your father, want their loved ones to live, while others, like me, want the means to avenge one’s family. But everything has a price. My price for the powers the Shadows granted me, was to wear the crown and do their bidding. Your father’s price, was that you would one day belong to the Lord of Shadows—me.” He clicked his tongue. “Only providence knows what that girl paid for with her life.”

“But why did they have to use her so viciously?” she spat, swallowing her sobs.

Shadowfiend clenched his jaw. “That was perhaps not entirely necessary. Cornelius says the Shadows demand it—conceiving before the sacrifice signifies all the future lives bound in the blood.” Then he laughed, darkly and humourlessly. “But I think he just likes it. I don’t see how he gets very much intimacy otherwise.”

“Then w-why didn’t you stop it?” she croaked.

“That girl was going to die either way,” drawled the Hero. “If Cornelius… well, _spiced up_ the sacrificial ceremony, and she agreed to it, then there’s no reason for me to interfere.”

“No reason?” she spat. “The girl was _raped_!”

“Wrong,” muttered Shadowfiend. “She agreed. It was consensual. She knew what she was getting herself into. She entered into a contract, full disclosure.” Then he set his jaw tight again.

“But I didn’t.” Delia shook her head, ignoring the tears that escaped her eyes. “I won’t marry you. I’d rather die.”

“Oh, you see,” he sneered and closed the distance between them, “that ship has sailed. You would have died, had your father not made this deal. Now when it’s made, it cannot be undone.” He peered down at her, his face closer to hers than what she would have liked. “You will be my black bride, Cordelia.”

“No,” she huffed, boldly staring into the man’s eyes.

He chuckled as he swayed even closer, effectively trapping her against the wall. “Yes, you will,” he breathed in her ear. “We will be wed here, in the Temple of Shadows, and once you’re mine, we’ll rule the Darkness together.”

“No, you demon!” she cried and pushed him away.

He was still smirking as anger flashed before his lustrous eyes and his hand swiftly closed around her throat, his claws digging into the tender skin at her neck. “Do not anger me,” he growled.

Delia felt his grip tighten, cutting off her air. His gaze was hungry, anticipating, and terrifying. She closed her eyes, wishing to wake up in her bed and realise it was all just a horrible nightmare. “You’re a terrible man,” she croaked out.

“Yes,” he growled, “and I can be worse, so don’t provoke me.” The Hero released his grip, and air flowed through her once more. He stepped back, his gaze dark, as he muttered, “you’d do best accepting your place, Cordelia. The experience won’t be very pleasant for you if you don’t. Once we’re wed, we’ll spend our wedding night here, in honour of the Shadows, and then you’ll come with me to my mansion in Bloodstone.”

She widened her eyes and breathed out a, “no!”

“I expect a certain decorum from my wife,” he continued, ignoring her horrified face. “I do not wish to have to punish you for disobedience. You will heed my words, please me in bed, and represent me well. If you do this, I shall treat you kindly and fairly. You will have all that you need, and you will be safe. Do you understand?”

She kept staring at him, panic rising steadily in her chest. So this was it, then? She was to be married to the Hero, the Lord of Shadows, and she would have to go with him to Bloodstone, the wretched city surrounded of pirates and murderers, by the haunted Wraithmarsh and the treacherous seas. She would have to leave everything she knew—her home, her family, her friends—and live out her days in the mercy of evil.

“Do you understand?” he repeated and yanked her chin up.

She nodded, tears spilling over the brim of her eyes.

Gently, he wiped them with his thumb. “Good.” He observed her face for a moment before he leaned down and pressed his lips against hers. They were warm, surprisingly soft, and his kiss was astonishingly gentle, but dominant enough to make his intent clear.

Delia made no effort in replying, or in any way showing interest, but she could not deny the strong surge that ran through her body as he kissed her. She cursed herself for feeling the heat in her belly, for feeling the slight tremble of her knees, and for feeling the fleeting urge to wrap her arms around his neck and just submit to him—his kiss was enchanting. His lips burnt like embers against hers, and when he parted from her, a whisper in the back of her mind willed her to pull him back—she resisted it, but couldn’t help but to wet her lips, tasting him on them.

The Hero smirked, pleased by his own effect, and then he huffed, “you will stay here until the wedding.”

Delia’s heart dropped. “What?” It wasn’t more than a whimper, but she stared at him, wide-eyed and heartbroken. “But it’s a month…”

“Yes.”

She shivered at the hardness of his voice, and she couldn’t keep her tears from welling over. These dark, cold hallways were to be her prison for the next month, and if the Hero was to be believed, she was to be taken to Bloodstone after the ceremony. Would she ever see her father again? Her friends?

Shadowfiend clenched his jaw. “Dry your tears. They have no use here.” Then he turned back to his chair, sat down, and resumed reading his book.

Delia sniffled and slowly sank down to the floor. Pulling her legs to her chin, she ignored his commands, and cried.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

**PART 3 **

Time seemed to stand still in the dark, lonely dungeons. Delia spent most of her days alone, roaming the empty halls. Some places, however, she only visited once—torture chambers, strange bonding contraptions, straw beds inside small, naked cells… it was horrible, nightmarish. Every night, she feared the door to her chambers would open to reveal dark hooded figures who would take her away. Shadow Worshippers did come to her chambers twice a day, but luckily, it was only to bring her food. Other than that, she was all on her own. She thought about showing her discontent by refusing to eat, but she did not want to give the Worshippers any reason to handle her. She did, however, make a point not to speak to any of them, and they never entered her room. It was a comfort, at least, and her chambers became the only place in the temple where she could feel some kind of safety; she even liked to pretend that there were invisible wards, preventing any evil from entering. If anything, it helped her to sleep. 

There were no windows, no sign of daylight, and it became difficult for her to know what time of day it was—if it was day at all. She wandered about with the same clothes, not having anything to change into; her needs had to be relieved in a chamber pot she left to the Worshippers; she had not been allowed to bath since she was brought to the temple. She was a prisoner, even though her prison was the entire Temple of Shadows. 

At times, voices echoed from far into the temple as she heard the Worshippers mass. Now and then, she could hear the bloodcurdling cries of women, and she did not want to know what the Worshippers were doing to them. She could only imagine.

The loneliness and the never-ending fear were the things that got to her the most. It had even reached the point where she missed Shadowfiend—but whenever he came back, she was reminded how much she feared him and how dark her future was. Usually, he said very little, and just gave her looks she couldn’t decipher; either he wanted to tear her clothes off, or kill her. Perhaps he wanted both.

One night, Shadowfiend stayed longer than he usually did, reading by the fire. Delia, craving for company, sat silently in an armchair beside him, trying to conjure up enough courage to speak and risk disturbing the man.

She almost jumped straight out of her skin as he said, “tell me something about yourself, Cordelia.” 

His voice sent chills down her spine, and in her fragile frame of mine, she knew not if it were chills of horror, or chills of delight. She bit her lip. “What… what would you like to know, sir?”

His horns cast ominous shadows over his luminescent eyes. “Well, I should know my bride.”

Delia brought her hands together and thought for a moment about what to say. “I am… born in Bowerstone, and have lived there all my life—but you probably already knew that…”

The man chuckled. “That wasn’t so hard to figure out. Where else would a noble lady such as yourself have been raised, if not Bowerstone?”

She smiled half-heartedly. “Indeed, sir.”

“Tell me something I couldn’t possibly know.”

She sighed. “I… I love to paint. I do it all the time in my father’s house at Bower Lake.”

Shadowfiend observed her with a pleased smile. “So, you’re a painter.” He nodded. “Do you play the piano, speak three languages, and read aristocratic novels as well?”

Delia shifted awkwardly in her seat. The dripping sarcasm in his voice was impossible to miss, and she felt a bit belittled—and rather insulted.

The Hero leaned against the armrest closest to her. “Anything else I should know?”

Delia felt her cheeks redden by his hooded eyes. Shaking her head, she said, “there isn’t much to know about me. I’m plain and ordinary.”

“And yet you snuck away on your own to an evening at a tavern,” the Hero scoffed. “That’s not very… plain, is it? If I know your father, he would never have allowed it. So why were you out?”

Her blush deepened as she dropped her gaze. “I heard you had come to town,” she mumbled. “I just wanted to steal a peak.”

“But you left before I could arrive,” said he, feign innocence in his voice. He clicked his tongue. “So impatient…”

Delia huffed and glared at him. “I felt uncomfortable, and for good reason, if you don’t recall.”

Shadowfiend tightened his jaw. “Yes, I do recall that.”

“Did you…” Delia started, but bit her tongue.

“Did I what?”

She sighed. “Did you know who I was when you saved me?”

His eyes trailed over her face, lingered on her lips, before his green eyes landed on hers. “No.”

This surprised her. “No?” She bit her lip. “So there is some decency in you, at least.”

The Hero huffed with a smirk, “I don’t know if I would call it ‘decency’. I had an elaborate plan of getting between your legs that evening.”

Delia swallowed hard and shuddered at the thought. “And what made you change your mind?”

“Your name,” he said. “I thought you’d be a hag, or at least unattractive—you’d be my appointed mate, so of course you’d be haggish. No one is lucky enough to be granted a beautiful wife in an arranged marriage.” He sighed, deeply and darkly—almost letting out a rumble. “But then you said your family’s name… and such a lovely creature you are.” He reached out, their chairs close enough, and gently took a lock of her hair between his fingers. “It takes every grain of willpower I have not to force myself on you here and now.”

Her cheeks glowed with heat as she sank further down into the chair. His addresses were direct, aggressive even, but she couldn’t help the flutter of her heart.

“Don’t worry,” he mused and released the lock. “I’m not a savage. You may not look kindly upon this arrangement, but once our wedding night approaches, you’ll be more than willing.”

She felt her body numb—thinking about the marriage, about the wedding night, made her lungs scream for air. She felt closed in, trapped, and no matter how much his deviant charm affected her, there was no way she would ever be willing. By Avo!—she would fight him all the way. “No,” she breathed. “I won’t be.”

Shadowfiend chuckled. It wasn’t a dark laugh, or even a humourless one—it was genuine, as though she had said something funny.

Delia crossed her arms. “I mean it,” she said. “I will never want you.”

“Fine,” he mused. “Let’s see how long you can resist.” With that, he returned to his book, and Delia was left with burning cheeks. 

The days that followed were much the same, but at the same time, they were very different. Shadowfiend joined her for dinner, and stayed in his reading room for the evenings. Delia found herself seeking his company, yearning for some contact with the world outside. Shadowfiend indulged her, and each time, she felt his burning gaze sear through her. It did something to her, something she could not explain—a creeping feeling of being seen, of being validated by a powerful, handsome man, but she fought it. During the evenings, he asked her to tell him things about herself, about her dreams and wishes, and she allowed herself to enjoy the company and the conversation, but she made sure to guard herself. She felt lonely, almost to the brink of madness, but she would not fall into his trap. He was charming, kind even, but she would not let him trick her.

At night, she often cried. She missed her father, missed her friends—in truth, she missed people altogether. The dark halls entombed her, and not even Shadowfiend’s company could calm her from the agonising screams of the women from deep within the stone prison. They were sacrifices, the Hero told her one night. In a moment of weakness, she pleaded to him to make it stop, but he said that he could not. The Shadows had to be paid in blood—and the Shadow Worshippers liked maidens.

“You do not need to worry for your safety, Cordelia,” he said. “They will lose their heads if they touch you.”

“How gallant,” she muttered and curled up in the armchair.

The Hero chuckled and turned a page. “You’d be surprised.”

She sighed. “If you want to be gentlemanlike, you could let me wash myself, and let me change clothes.”

She felt Shadowfiend’s gaze upon her for a few moments, before he said, “that could be arranged.”

Delia straightened and looked at him. “Is it true? Are you really going to let me have a bath?”

He smiled crookedly. “I told you, I’m no savage.”

Delia did not like the look in his eyes—it was ravenous and deviant—but it made her heart thud passionately. The next day, she learnt that her intuition had been right. Shadowfiend fetched her from her room, took her through the halls, and led her into another room deep into the maze. There, a big fire was burning in a large fireplace, and a copper bathtub was placed in front of it, lined with linen and filled with steaming water. The sight almost brought tears to Delia’s eyes. She turned to the Hero with a shy smile as she wringed her hands together. “Thank you,” she said, and he bowed. She waited for him to leave her to herself, but he did not seem to plan on going anywhere. Delia felt her cheeks redden as she said, “are… are you not leaving?”

“No.”

Her heart stopped. Was he going to watch her bathe? Slowly, he walked around to her back. She gasped as she felt him unlace her bodice. “Leaving a vulnerable, bathing woman in a place like this? What kind of man would I be if I did that?”

“I thought you said they would lose their heads if they touched me,” she mumbled as his slow, tantalizing touch made her knees weak.

He hummed, removing the last ties of her bodies before moving his hands to her shoulders. “They can’t touch, but they can still look. I wouldn’t be too happy about that.”

Delia gasped when he slid his hands down her arms, bringing her dress with him. It fathered at her feet, the soft rustle of the fabric clinging in the silence. She instinctively wrapped her arms around herself. When he began lacing up her corset, she wrapped her arms around herself tighter and squealed, “no!”

The Hero huffed, amusedly. “Are you going to bathe with your clothes on?”

“No, but—” She had to catch the sob in her throat from escaping. “I can manage on my own.”

Shadowfiend stopped his movements, but did not back away. He leaned closer, brushed his lips against her ear, and said, “I know you can.”

She felt the heat of his body against her, and she shuddered. A knot was forming in her chest, and she wished that he would just leave her be—and at the same time, she did not wish him gone. With a deep, lustful sigh, the Hero resumed unlacing her corset. Delia had no strength to fight him, and when her corset dropped to the ground, her heart dropped with it. She felt her bust perk at the sudden freedom, and her belly heated, as the Hero slowly pried her arms from her bosom. He then slipped the shift down her shoulders, letting his thumbs carefully caress her skin. It pooled at her feet, together with the dress, leaving her exposed, and she shrunk in embarrassment. She closed her eyes, fought the tears, and felt the Hero round her again. She felt him stand in front of her, and he smelled of gunpowder and leather, but she did not dare to open her eyes. She knew what she would see—his hungry gaze and his self-conceited smile—and she would not want to see the victory in his eyes once he saw her scarlet cheeks. She gasped again when she felt his breath trickle down her chest, over her bust—slowly, agonisingly slowly—and down her belly. A small, involuntary whimper escaped her as she felt his hands grab hold of one of her thighs. His big hands reached around her, his claws gently scratching her soft flesh, his fingers almost grazing her copper locks. Her skin prickled violently as he pulled down her stockings, one by one, torturously slow. Her body was trembling as heat was building in her core, wetness slowly seeping, and she was drowned in a haze as Shadowfiend gently led her to the water. She stepped in, her eyes fastened on his, and she sank down in the steaming water.

The Hero stepped back and sat down on a chair, his eyes still settled on her. Delia could barely move as she sat there in the hot water, watching the green eyes watching her. When the haze had dispersed, she could finally relax. The water was soothing, and even though she felt a slight discomfort from Shadowfiend’s relentless gaze, she could still enjoy the stillness of the moment. Her heart slowed, her breath stilled, and she dared to look away from the demon in the dark as she closed her eyes and leaned her head against the edge.

She knew not how long she had been lying in the bath when Shadowfiend’s dark voice drew her back as he said, “aren’t you going to wash?”

Delia hummed, too pleased with the feeling of the soothing water to care. “I like just lying here,” she mused.

The Hero snickered. “The water will be cold when you start scrubbing.”

Sighing deeply, she sat up. On a stool next to the bath, there was a bath brush and a bar of soap. Carefully, she reached for them. It felt good scrubbing her body of all the dirt, all the darkness, and she even cleaned her hair. For a brief moment, she could forget that she was imprisoned in a place of evil, and just enjoy the little comfort a nice bath could give her—for the moment was gone the minute she was done. She remained in the water for quite some time, dreading having to rise. The water cooled, and soon, she was shivering.

“You’re cold,” said Shadowfiend after a while, and rose from his seat. “Come here.” He picked up her shift and hung it over his arm. “You need to get warm.” He reached out a hand for her, but she only looked at it, closing her arms over her bosom.

“I can manage it myself,” she mumbled. “You could wait outside the door.”

The Hero cocked his head. “No.”

She glared at him. This wasn’t gentlemanlike.

Shadowfiend was losing patience. “Get up,” he snarled, the darkness behind him thickening.

Delia immediately felt her heart in her throat, and she carefully grabbed the edges of the tub. It shouldn’t matter—he had already gazed upon her naked form—but she was embarrassed as she rose from the water. She took his hand as she stepped out of the tub, one arm wrapped around her breasts. The Hero ordered her to put her arms up. Reluctantly, she obeyed. He swiftly pulled the linen gown over her head and let it fall over her body. The warmth of the fabric was welcomed, but the water from the still wet body and hair quickly drenched the fabric. It provided no shield from his peering eyes, and the Lord of Shadows smirked as he eyed her.

“You are a rare beauty, Cordelia,” he said. “The Shadows have granted me a perfect bride.”

She flushed deeply and looked away. She did not want to think about what was to come. Swallowing hard, she picked up the black dress and corset from the floor and held it close, covering the sheer fabric of her shift. “I want to return to my room now, please.”

Shadowfiend nodded and led her back. His big, black dog—who she now knew was named Reeves—lay on the floor just by the door and sprung to his paws as his master reached for the door. Skulking ahead, the beast disappeared into the darkness, and with a snap of a finger, a flame bust alive in the Hero’s hand. Delia gasped, tensed, but Shadowfiend chuckled and wrapped his other hand around her shoulders as he led her through the halls. “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “It doesn’t hurt. Well, not me, at least.”

Delia couldn’t stop staring at the flaming hand. It was outlandish, seeing the flame dance in the Hero’s palm, and it made him look even more menacing. When they approached her chambers, she found the door open. She stopped dead in her track, causing the Hero to halt in surprise. “Someone has been inside my room,” she whispered. The Shadow Worshippers never entered her room—she placed her chamber pot outside the door, and they replaced it with a tray of food. They never entered.

Shadowfiend clicked his tongue. “I’m sure it’s fine.”

Delia shook her head, unexpected fear rising within. She couldn’t understand why this frightened her so, but it did. It meant that her room wasn’t the safe space she thought it was, it didn’t magically repel evil and darkness—and even though she knew it never had, it was still a thought that had lingered in her mind from the very beginning.

“You’re with me,” said Shadowfiend. “No one will hurt you. Come.” With a steady hand, he led her inside. A fresh fire was burning; a table had been moved inside with two chairs, and on the table were two plates filled with warm, steaming, and deliciously fragrant food; on the bed, Delia noticed, there was a dress laid out—a black one, with red lace. There was, however, no one else in the room.

Delia slowly walked to the bed and dropped the dress she held in her arms to inspect the new one. It was a velvet gown, heavy and rigid, but rich and luxurious. The colours, on the other hand, were rather off-putting. After spending so much time in the halls of the Temple of Shadows, she had developed contempt towards the black and red combination, and seeing it on such a lovely dress was a great grievance.

“Is it not to your liking?” Shadowfiend asked, noticing her scowl.

Delia shook her head. “It’s beautiful.”

“Put it on and let me see,” he commanded.

She sighed heavily, her hair still dripping. “I’ll need a comb,” she muttered.

“Why?” he sneered.

“To comb my hair,” she spat.

Shadowfiend took a few steps closer, his eyes glaring, as he growled, “you don’t need to comb your hair to try on a dress. Now, put it on.”

Delia didn’t move. Her chest heaved in anger and she clenched her fists. She was not his doll, and she refused to be treated as one.

The shadows in the room grew and the light from the fire seemed to fade as his dark voice resonated all around her. “You either put the dress on, so we can sit down for a lovely meal, or you will dine in the nude, with the Worshippers.”

She froze in place, panic rising from her chest and spreading through her limbs; fear had stiffened her so much, it hurt as she reached for the corset. “You have to help me,” she breathed.

Shadowfiend strode up to her, and clothed her almost as intimately as he had undressed her, and Delia felt more and more how her soul was slowly drained from her as the darkness grew thicker all around.

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

** PART 4 **

Delia tried to find comfort in the little things; one day, she thought she could see a rabbit playing in the flames, and another day, a butterfly had somehow found its way down into the dark temple. She knew not how much time had passed, but she sorely hoped All Soul’s Night would come soon—even a life as the wife of the Lord of Shadows would be better than this.

Shadowfiend seemed to feel the same way—he was impatient and had become much more intimate. He liked to touch her hair, caress her face, inhale her scent, and Delia could see in his gaze that he found it more difficult each day being gallant and respectful. She feared the day his patience ran out. One night, it almost did. They had had a nice, quiet evening in his reading room until Delia had asked him, innocently and kindly, to let her see her father before she was taken to Bloodstone. Shadowfiend refused, promptly and harshly.

“Why?” she cried. “Why can’t I see him?”

“That life has passed,” growled Shadowfiend as he angrily flipped the page.

“What harm could it do?” she persisted. “I _want_ to see him!”

“No,” he muttered.

“What cold monster refuses a daughter to see her own father?” she cried out.

The Hero slammed his book closed and glared at her, eyes venomous. “I am your master now, Cordelia. You do as I say, and if I tell you that you can’t see your father, there is no use questioning it.”

She crossed her arms. “If you don’t let me see my father, I will make it my life’s mission to be as disobedient as I can.”

Setting his jaw tight, the Hero growled through gritted teeth, “then I will punish you until you obey.”

“I hate you,” she spat and rose from the armchair. “You are a despicable man—a monster!—and you do not deserve the title of Hero.” With that, she stomped towards the door but was swiftly grabbed by Shadowfiend and slammed against the wall.

“How dare you speak to me in that manner?” he growled, his face only inches from hers as he held her wrists in tight, painful grips.

She winced, her anger quickly replaced by sudden fear. She had hit the back of her head into the wall, and pain was now thudding from her head to her shoulders and down her spine. Tears spilt from her almost immediately, and he had almost knocked the air out of her. “Please,” she breathed.

Shadowfiend did not back down. He still had her wrists in his hands, and his face was still inches from hers; he breathed rapidly, and the darkness behind him grew opaque, impenetrable, causing his green eyes to almost glow. “You,” he growled darkly, baring his teeth. “You are infuriating!” He pressed himself closer, his breath hot against her face.

Delia tried to be calm, tried to be brave, but the Hero’s gaze drifted to her lips—unknowingly, she wet them, and deep inside, she had the disturbing wish that he would claim them. And he did. With a growl, he took her lips with his, kissed her aggressively, and pressed himself even closer. Delia had no chance of stopping him as he extended his tongue to invade hers as he kissed her deeply—and she didn’t want to stop him. Her body responded to him as though he commanded it. Moaning softly into him made him lose control, and he quickly spun her around, pressing her face and chest against the cold wall. Delia was suddenly awakened from her enchantment and began struggling against him as he lifted her skirts to reveal her backside.

“No!” she cried, panicked. “Please, no!”

Shadowfiend only growled as he continued moving her skirts out of the way. She screamed, cried, and fought against him, to the point where he grabbed her hair and forced her cheek against the stone wall. “Be quiet!” he roared at her as he pressed his body to hers. She could feel his arousal against her, taunting her viciously.

Delia sobbed uncontrollably. Her whole body was trembling—her soul was broken. When he had her skirts gathered at her hips, she prepared herself for the pain that would follow; nothing happened. The Hero’s chest heaved against her, hot air huffing into her neck, his hard member pressed against her backside, but he did not advance in his abuse.

With a deep, frustrated, guttural growl, he let her skirts fall to the floor again and he grabbed her waist. “I am not a monster,” he hissed in her ear before finally releasing her and stepping away.

Delia wrapped her arms around herself and sobbed silently, still facing the wall. During her weeks in this prison, she had been led to believe that there was some decency left in the Hero, some humanity, but he was an evil man. The mere thought of having to marry him was more disheartening now than ever. Shadowfiend said no more that evening, and Delia returned to her armchair, too afraid to do anything else to anger the man.

She cried herself to sleep that night, and the morning after, she didn’t bother rising from her bed. She knew All Soul’s Night was growing nearer—a month had almost passed—and the little hope she saw in leaving this place was now dark. Indeed, she would leave the darkness of the temple, but she would be imprisoned by her husband, Darkness himself. Had it been any other, she could have had a chance of survival. Any other man would have been better than Shadowfiend—he was a Hero, the most powerful man in all of Albion, and there would be no battle between them that he wouldn’t win.

She heard the Worshippers put down her breakfast tray outside her door, but she made no effort to fetch it. She remained in bed, watching as the embers in the fireplace slowly died. She thought it was rather poetic, mimicking her heart dying within her chest. Next time she opened her eyes, the room was engulfed in complete darkness. Coldness was seeping underneath the covers, and for a brief moment, she feared the Shadows had come to claim her. She realised shortly after that it was only the embers that had finally gone out. She sighed and pulled the covers tighter around her, wondering if she might just as well stay in bed all day, all night, until she either froze to death, or starved.

Then, there was a knock on the door. Delia gasped and sat up, her head throbbing from the sudden move. The door slowly swung open, and light spilt into the room. Shadowfiend walked in, the flame burning in his hand. Delia pulled her knees to her chin, panic rising within.

“You haven’t touched your breakfast,” he said.

Delia pulled her knees closer.

Shadowfiend sighed as he tightened his jaw. “Get dressed. You have a visitor.”

She looked at him, raised her brows, and waited for him to tell her who it was. Shadowfiend, however, did not seem patient enough to indulge her, and she slowly slipped out of bed. She tried to hurry, but lacing her corset on her own took time—she did not want to ask for the Hero’s help. He waited by the door, the flame still burning in his hand. The glow from it was the only light she had, and she unknowingly sought her way closer to its source. Soon enough, she stood close enough to feel the heat from it, as she fastened the small hooks of the front of her bodice. When she looked up, Shadowfiend caught her chin in his hand, and Delia gasped. Did she do anything wrong?

Carefully, the Hero let his thumb caress her lip. “You look tired. Sombre.”

There was something in his voice that coaxed a sob from her throat, but she forced it back down. “I am tired.”

He furrowed his dark brows, shadowing his luminous eyes, as the muscles twitched in his strong jaw. “I got carried away last night,” he muttered. “I apologise for that.”

For a short moment, she was almost swept away by the profound sincerity in his eyes, but she quickly came to her senses and remembered who he was. The apology was bleak, at best. She sealed her lips shut and refrained from voicing the sharp retort that was rising.

Shadowfiend kept her chin in his grip, kept caressing her face slowly, before he leaned down and kissed her. It was a warm kiss, a gentle one, and the moment their lips met, she felt the familiar jolt in her body as it responded to him. She couldn’t help it. He pulled away, only slightly, and brushed his thumb over the fresh moisture. With a rumble, he stepped away and motioned her to leave the room. Delia, strangely captivated by the gentle intimacy, had almost forgotten about her visitor. Worry suddenly spread through her—who was important enough for Shadowfiend to fetch her himself?

As they walked through the corridors, her worry worsened. Shadowfiend seemed tense, vexed, and his mood made Delia wonder. Was there someone with more power than him? Was he bowing to someone else? _The Shadows_. Coldness crept along her spine as the realisation came down upon her—so she was to be presented to the Shadows themselves, whoever, or whatever, they were? They entered a large hall, where the ceiling arched high above them; a light flickered in the other end, and a hooded figure stood there, skulking. Their footsteps echoed ominously between the walls, and Delia pressed herself closer to the Hero and she prayed to Avo that he would at least care about his future wife enough to protect her from possible harm—if not from himself, then from others

The hooded figure came nearer and nearer, and Delia felt her heart hammer violently against her ribs. She swallowed, fearing the horror that would reveal itself from underneath the dark cloth. When the figure turned, Delia found herself in shock. “Papa?”

Reginald Rockford looked back at her, tears flooding his eyes. “Darling!”

Delia burst into tears and flung herself at the man, and he embraced her. She bawled at his chest as her knees gave way, and the two of them sank to the floor.

“I am ashamed and I wish I could take it all back,” her father sobbed in her ear. “Can you please forgive me, dearest Cordelia?”

Delia tried to coax out a word, but her voice wouldn’t let her. She just pressed herself closer to her father, wishing he would just take her home. He cried too, like a little child, as he held her with trembling hands.

Slowly, Reginald raised his head. “Please, my lord, let me bring my daughter home until the wedding.”

“No.” Shadowfiend’s voice echoed ominously between the stone walls.

“My lord,” Reginald sobbed, “I beg you! She is withering away here in the dark. Please! It is but three days. Let her come back with me to Bowerstone, and I will personally—”

“ _Enough_.” It was as though the Shadows themselves were roaring. Both Delia and Reginald cowered. Shadowfiend walked closer. “She is not your daughter anymore, Rockford. She’s my bride and she will stay here.”

Delia gasped as Shadowfiend’s large hand closed around her arm and she was yanked to her feet, away from her father’s embrace. “No!” she shrieked, but her capturer paid her no mind. Reginald cried. Hiding his face in his hands, he was reduced to nothing but a dark heap on the floor as he wept, while Delia was dragged back into the dark halls of the Temple of Shadows, screaming and crying hysterically.

The Hero brought her back to her room, and once inside, her throat was so sore, she could barely speak. The moment Shadowfiend had released his hold of her, she had sprinted to the other side of the room, as far away from him as possible, and collapsed there against the wall.

Shadowfiend stood by the door, grunted, and tossed a flame from his hand into the fireplace. It exploded and set the ashen tinder ablaze. “You will eat the food that is served to you. I will not have you miss another meal.”

Delia pulled her knees to her chin. “I’d rather starve.”

“Very well,” he growled. “I’ll bring you your food myself.”

She buried her face behind her knees and sobbed hard. Shadowfiend said nothing more before he left, slamming the door behind him. Delia remained on the floor for a long while, long after her tears had dried. She watched the magic flames as they burned brightly in the hearth, and she thought back to her childhood when she would run through the halls of Rockford Manor and pretend to be a Hero of Heroes’ Guild. How innocent she had been, how naive. But she remained in that memory for a little longer, for there might be some happiness in it to keep her from drowning in darkness.

*

The Hero honoured his promise. He made sure she ate every meal that was brought to her. He watched her, intently, as she ate her soups, her meat, her bread, her cheese… Delia thought it was as though he was fattening her for slaughter. His gaze rarely left her, and while it was vexing, frightening, and utterly indecent of him, Delia couldn’t help but feel… strangely enamoured. She was ashamed of it, but the carnal lust in his eyes made her belly flutter; he was magnetic and handsome, but Delia tried to remember that he was wickedly evil as well.

He kissed her often, momentarily dragging her into the shadows and the darkness and making her _want_. He was a seductive man and he knew it—but she resisted him. Soon, she knew she would have to yield to him and become his wife, but before that, she could still retain her dignity by resisting him to the very end.

But on the morning of All Soul’s Night, her heart hammered relentlessly in her chest. She was terrified. Shadowfiend arrived with her breakfast and he watched her intensely as she drank her tea and ate her bread and honey.

“Tonight, we will be wed,” he said, his voice dripping with impatience.

Delia swallowed and dropped her gaze.

“Tonight,” Shadowfiend rumbled, “I will have you.”

Delia felt her hands tremble, so she hid them underneath the table. When the Hero left her, she nearly lost her breath. She breathed so rapidly, she couldn’t get any air into her lungs. She was terrified, panicked, and knew not what to make of herself. The black and red dress hung over the foot of the bed. It felt like poison against her skin as she dressed.

Shadowfiend returned at dinner, his eyes burning with anticipation. When they had both eaten, the hour was closing in. Delia was frightened and nervous, but Shadowfiend only seemed impatient. Pulling her to him, he kissed her passionately, tugged at her lips, and ran his tongue along her teeth. His hands trailed her form, claimed her, and she felt her whole body tremble in trepidation. There was heat building in her—heat she did not want, but heat her body could not deny.

“Come,” he said when they had parted, his voice veiled in lust. “Let’s begin the ceremony. Reeves!” 

The black dog quickly rose at his master’s command and joined his side. Delia was pulled along as the Hero strode through the dark hallways of the Temple of Shadows. On their way, they passed the cells and the torture chambers, and Delia tried to keep from imagining what horrors that went on in these dungeons. It wasn’t difficult—she could almost hear the screams resonating from the walls themselves.

They reached a centre chamber—a grand hall with large statues of fiends and demons lining the walls. In the farthest end of the room was an altar made of stone, lit up by rows upon rows of wax candles and torches. Behind it was a tall, cracked window with glass as red as blood, almost as though it had sunken through the earth. The light from the candles danced sinisterly in the brilliant red glass, casting a ghastly sheen of red over the scene. There, by the altar, stood three dark hooded figures. Their hushed whispers still echoed in the vastness of the room, and they silenced when Shadowfiend made his presence known.

“My lord,” said the dark monks and fell to their knees.

“We are ready now, be quick about it,” muttered the Hero darkly, his grip still tightly around Delia’s arm, and the monks rose quickly and scurried to the altar.

On the altar stood a plain, silver challis. One of the monks, one with a blood-red hood, placed himself behind it as the other two placed themselves on either side of the stone rise. Lifting the challis, the monk with the red hood held it high up in the air. The scarlet from the window behind glittered in the silver metal, almost making it look as though the challis was on fire.

“O Shadows,” called the monk as he held the challis higher. “Grace us with thy will, thy power, and thine eternal Darkness. Seep thy blackness into the vessels before us, bind them together and let them carry forth thy spawn!” The shadows around them seemed to move, as though they fluttered in the wind, and a low, vibrating sound seemed to emit from the very air around them. Delia pressed herself closer to the nearest living creature, even though that creature happened to be the Lord of Shadows himself. The darkness swirled again, as small ribbons of the thick blackness seeped into the challis before the shadows of the room went back to as it was before. The monk placed the challis back onto the altar, and the monk at Shadowfiend’s side reached for his hand with a dagger at the ready. Delia watched in shock as the Hero allowed the monk to cut hit finger, and a few drops of his blood was poured into the challis. She gasped when she felt a hand grab her own, and she snatched it away from the monk at her side, who also stood with a dagger at the ready.

“No,” she gasped.

“It will only be a small prick of the tip,” Shadowfiend muttered softly. “Let him do it, or I’ll do it myself.”

She gazed up at him; she knew that his patience was at the precipice. She would not wish to know what would happen, should it run out completely. With a trembling hand, she reached out to the monk. It was a quick dip into her finger. She hissed as the sharp blade penetrated the skin, and she watched as the red blood crowned on her pale skin. The monk brought her hand to the challis, gave her finger a rather harsh squeeze—enough so to make her pull her hand away and put it in her mouth—and the monk with the red hood once again raised the challis.

“Blood and Darkness,” he called. “Fire and Ash. Red and Black.” Again, he lowered the challis and handed it to Shadowfiend. “Drink the Nectar of the Night, and be joined.”

The Hero took a deep and rich gulp before he handed it to Delia. She accepted it warily. Gazing down into the cup, she was surprised by the thick, dark liquid that was in it. All she could see was her own, pale face peering back at her, distorted by the trembles of her hand.

“Drink,” Shadowfiend growled lowly, and Delia took a deep, unsteady breath and brought the cold metal to her lips. A sob escaped her, and she could barely will her arm to tip the glass. Finally, she did. She swept the dark liquid, thinking that she had lost already. She felt the thick substance trill down her throat like tar, and there was a burning ache spreading throughout her body. She choked, croaked, and dropped the challis as she reached for her throat. Something was entering her, something malevolent. _Poison_. She could feel it, like sinister claws crawling down into her very core. She couldn’t breathe, and the pain seared through her like a branding iron. She grabbed for the Hero’s coat as her legs folded themselves underneath her, but he let her fall. On the cold, damp stone floor, she could barely move as she felt her body struggle for air. Her vision darkened at the edges, white lights appeared as she blinked, and for a moment, she thought she would die. She felt at peace, welcoming Death as it descended from the heavens to claim her. She closed her eyes, felt her body go numb, and then—nothing. Air returned to her as the pain she had felt disappeared. She gasped, breathed, and clawed at her throat again. She was alive.

Turning, she saw the Hero’s extended hand towards her. She only glared at him, refusing to allow him to help her.

Anger swept across Shadowfiend’s face as he forcefully grabbed her and heaved her onto her feet, his hold around her arm even tighter than before. It would certainly leave a vicious mark.

“You are now bound,” said the monk with the red hood and grinned. “My lord, you may kiss your bride.”

Shadowfiend turned to Delia and grabbed her hair as he forced her head backwards before he clashed his lips onto hers. He was far from as gentle as he had been before, and he didn’t just kiss her, but he claimed her as his price—his _wife_. He forced his tongue inside her mouth, and at the impact, she nearly collapsed again. The feeling was explosive, unreal. The want seeped through her like venom, setting her loins on fire. It was unlike anything she had ever felt before. She couldn’t stop herself as she responded to him, and moved her own tongue with his, let it travel over his teeth and lips, and taste the desire. She gripped his coat and pressed herself closer. When she realised what she was doing, she pulled away, breaking from the Hero’s lips with a smack. Her cheeks burned and she stared into his green gaze, terrified. Her body screamed to be touched by him, as though her body knew it belonged to him, and she quickly glanced down at the empty challis on the floor. She had been poisoned with lust. Dark, malevolent lust. Shadowfiend’s said nothing as he picked her up into his arms and left the hall to venture back into the dark depth of the temple.

* * *


End file.
